What I've Been Missing
by SilverBulletAngel
Summary: Sherlock and Madison are happily married and a certain psychopath steps in and breaks into the three most secure places in the country. Will the Reichenbach Hero's wife began to question their relationship... or even her husband's sanity? Sequel to "What I've Never Known". **DISCONTINUED**
1. The Sherlock Holmes Hat

**Here we are: "What I've Been Missing". If you're looking for a fanfiction where Sherlock Holmes grows old and dies alone, you're in the wrong place. If you're looking for "What I've Never Known", you're still in the wrong place. If you're still reading this, then go down a little farther for something new! Thanks to Starcrier for the encouragement!**

"Boffin. Boffin Sherlock Holmes." In the middle of his sentence, Sherlock had tossed the newspaper on the table; John picked it up.

"Everybody gets one," he replied.

"One what?"

"Tabloid nickname. Don't worry, I'll probably get one soon."

"Page five, column six, first sentence." He opened to the page and frowned. "Why is it always the hat photograph?"

"_Bachelor_ John Watson?"

The front door opened, and in walked Madison carrying in both hands groceries. "Coming in!" she called, shutting the door with her foot. "Am I interrupting?"

"Well, welcome back," Sherlock said, meeting her with a kiss and taking some of the load.

"You're just in time," said John, holding up the article.

"Ah, your latest happy ending." In the kitchen she moved aside some jars of… something, and put the bags down, taking the ones from her husband. "Where'd you find that hat, anyway?"

Sherlock huffed something of a cough. "What's on my to-do list next Tuesday?"

She turned to him quickly. Since his fame began to rise, she'd practically became his secretary. "What?" When he walked out, she caught his grin. "You…"

"Okay, this is too much," the doctor was saying, having finally puit the paper down. "We need to be more careful."

"What do you mean, 'more careful'?"

"I mean that isn't a deer stalker now, it's a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean you're not really a _private_ detective anymore. You're this far from famous."

"It'll pass." He sat down.

"It better pass. The press will turn, Sherlock, they always do. And they'll turn on you."

Having been in his thinking position, he looked at John. "It really bothers you."

"He's got a point, you know!" Madison called from the kitchen, then appearing at the door. "Just be careful, Sherlock."

Heaving a sigh, he leaned back.

**This is only meant to be just a little introduction, but more is on the way! So what happens next Tuesday?**


	2. A Consulting Criminal

**So, so, so, so, _SO_ sorry it's really late! Death in the family, a big move, and school started, so leave me alone. At least it's up, right? I own nothing, except the OC.**

"A consulting criminal?"

"Yes."

"Your own words. Can you expand on that answer?"

"James Moriarty is for hire."

"A tradesman?"

"Yes."

"But not the sort that'd fix your heating?"

"No, the sort to plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he would make a pretty decent job on your boiler." This brought some scattered chuckling.

James Moriarty used to be someone Madison read about in the paper briefly only as an anonymous serial bomber. As she was dating Sherlock, she learned no more but his name, which became a household name when they got married. It struck fear to her core, especially when she saw Sherlock freeze when he received the text from the criminal, who at the time was being arrested.

The police were baffled. How he broke into the Tower of London, the Bank of England, and the Pentonville Prison, they hadn't a clue. After reviewing the security footage, they found Moriarty had written _Get Sherlock_ with a smiley face in the "O", which meant absolutely nothing of good nature.

The Reichenbach Hero was set as a key witness in the trial, to which John and Madison quietly listened to in the crowd. Both were restless as they sat there, especially the detective's wife, who stared at the criminal, who stared at Sherlock. It was an intent stare, for sure.

"Would you describe him, as—what?"

"Can't do that, you're leading the witness. He objects, and the judge will uphold."

"Mr. Holmes—" the judge started in annoyance.

"Ask me _how_. _How_ would I describe him. What opinion have I formed of him. They don't teach you this."

"Mr. Holmes, we're fine without your help."

"How would you describe this man; his character?"

"First mistake: James Moriarty isn't a man at all. He's a spider, a spider at the center of a web, a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances."

There was a silence on the courtroom after Sherlock finished the statement. He'd used a tone that matched the description he gave, sending shivers down his wife's back. Madison never, even in the past when referring to Moriarty, heard him speak like that. It was as though he saved up all this hatred for this moment.

The woman cleared her throat and continued. "And how long—"

"No, no, don't do that, it's really not a good question—"

"Mr. Holmes!" the judge interrupted again.

"How long have I known him? Really not your best line of inquiry." That last sentence he almost muttered, continuing before someone could cut him off. "We met twice, five minutes in total, I pulled a gun and he tried to blow me up. I felt we had a special something."

"Miss Sorrel, are you seriously claiming this man is an expert? After knowing the accused for just five minutes?"

"Two minutes would make me an expert," said Sherlock. "Five was adequate."

"Mr. Holmes, that's a matter for the jury."

"Oh really?"

Both Madison and John knew exactly what to expect next, both cringing and bracing themselves.

Sherlock looked at the jury, scanning them and collecting information like a computer. "One librarian, two teachers, two high-pressure jobs—probably a city—four is a medical secretary, trained abroad judging by her short hair."

"Mr. Holmes—"

"Seven are married, two having an affair—with each other, apparently, they just had tea and biscuits. Would you like to know who ate the wafer?"

"Mr. Holmes! You've been called here to answer Miss Sorrel's questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess. Keep your answers brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt. Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes? Without showing off?"

Not even a minute passed and he was being escorted from the courtroom. Madison leaned back and heaved a sigh, looking at John, who just shrugged and turned his attention forward again. She nodded and got up, going out into the hall and sitting on a bench.

She'd soon realized that he was exactly the kind of man that everyone said he was: cold, unfeeling, and just plain odd. But at times, to her only, could he be warm, kind, and even normal. When trying to figure that out, it only made her brain hurt.

For the first time she came face-to-face with Moriarty as they were bringing him out. Accompanied by several guards, he caught a glimpse of her and stopped in one place. He smiled something ghastly, giving her the same stare that had been locked on her husband only earlier. Even as they took him away he watched, and she felt cold.

"Madison." She gasped and started when a hand touched her shoulder, but mentally scolded herself when she saw it was just John. "Are you all right? You like you've seen a ghost."

"Mm-hm." As they walked, Madison pursed her lips and examined the floor, having to be guided by the doctor with an arm around her shoulders.

"We'll get Sherlock and get you home."

The phone ringing was a startling sound in the flat at 221B. Sherlock, in a position of deep thinking, had opened his eyes. Madison, who had been standing by the window, took a quick and quiet intake of breath and looked to him. But he was looking at the phone beside him, picking it up and answering. He was silent as he listened, and she could hear John's frantic voice faintly on the other side. She knew as he hung up.

Sherlock examined her and said nothing, only coming to standing before her as if to deliver the bad news. No doubt Moriarty was on his way at that moment, but what he said shocked and angered her at the same time.

"I want you to go into the room." His tone was the same from before. "Close the door, lock it, and don't make a sound."

"If you think I'm going to leave you alone with him, you've concluded wrong. I won't stand by, fearful of every waking moment that he might decide to get a little more personal with you."

He paused, narrowing his eyes at her a moment before turning away. "Mrs. Hudson!"

There was the sound of footsteps fading up the stairs before the old woman appeared, looking a little frantic. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I've decided that you and Maddie need a little break from all this excitement, so I think the two of you need a Girls' Day Out." He fished into his pocket for his wallet and pulled out a credit card, giving it to their landlady.

"Oh, Sherlock, you're an angel! I'll get my coat!" She hurried out.

Madison shook her head when he looked at her again. "Savage."

The detective took her hand, leaning in close to leave a small and gentle kiss on her lips, and then holding that hand in both of his. For further emphasis, he looked deeply into her eyes.

"I can't lose you."

"You won't, Sherlock. I understand that this is a delicate situation, I really do. But I have to remind you that you're the one who sticks out his neck. Just promise me something."

"I don't—"

"Promise you won't get yourself killed. If not for yourself, then for me. If you're out of the picture, all I have is John and Mycroft."

He pretended to shudder after another pause, causing a grin to grow on her face. "Excellent point."

Mrs. Hudson returned. "All ready!"

"Wonderful." He helped his wife with her coat. "Don't forget to have fun."

She gave him a look. "Thank you, darling."


	3. Tuesday

"I'll just have a coffee."

"Tea for me, please."

I'm sure you can guess which of the women ordered what. Now Madison and Mrs. Hudson were in a café after three hours of a quote-unquote, "_Girls' Day Out_": it was mostly spent browsing-not-buying through Chinatown (which Sherlock had always been uneasy with her going there since the case that occurred there), a trip to a museum, and then right back to this very café.

"I'm exhausted," sighed the landlady, looking to find the young woman gazing at the cars passing by. "You've been awfully quiet today. What did Sherlock really want us out of there for?"

Madison didn't look away. "He met Moriarty after we left."

"How do you know that?"

"He practically told me. That ignorant idiot… who does he think he is, throwing his life out there like he does? He's one step away from having a knife in his back or a gun to his head."

"I believe that's already happened."

Now she heaved a sigh, turning back to Mrs. Hudson. "I'm very sorry, I sound very selfish. I just don't want anything to happen to him."

"You know," she said after a short break of pursing her lips and thinking, "I dated a man from the Yard once, back in my younger days. He was a real charmer, handsome, and very loving. He even asked me to marry him."

"What happened?"

"I turned him down. I thought like you did; he was very careless when it came to the matters of working on the street, intelligent yet very stupid. I told him to be more cautious and I'd agree, but that didn't happen. So, with that, we were broken off. Now, my point is, Sherlock's a grown man. You can reason with him and try to talk sense into him, but you can't alter him like that. He may just always be ignorant, because that's the way men are. We're here to just keep them together while with do the same with ourselves."

Now Madison was smiling, nodding. "I feel better. Thank you."

"Of course, he _did_ end up killed a month later."

_Never mind_, she thought with sudden anxiety coming upon her.

"Maddie. _Mad-die_."

When she felt familiar, warm lips on her jaw, she pushed her husband away and held the pillow tighter. Now he opened the blinds, making her bring the blanket over her head. Sherlock sighed and sat beside her again, leaning close and whispering in her ear:

"Happy Anniversary."

Now Madison sat up quickly, looking over at the calendar. Tuesday the fifteenth was circled. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry! I thought we were getting up later?"

"I've got a surprise for you. Go on, get dressed." So she got out of bed, put on her robe, and went to the closet. "No, no, no, stop. Stop it." He took her shoulders gingerly. "This is a very special day. Mrs. Hudson!"

The old woman hurried in. "Good morning!"

"Mrs. Hudson agreed to be your stylist today. You're not doing a thing yourself."

"Oh, you… Mrs. Hudson, he's not forcing you to do this, is he?"

"Don't be silly, I'm happy to help! Now, you, out." She prodded the detective out of the room and shut the door. "Wait until you see what he bought you!"

"Well, you old softie, happy anniversary," said John at the desk, on his blog, drinking tea, and smirking. Sherlock glared at him, making a cup for himself. "So what are you and Madison have lined up for today?"

"Nothing, why do you ask?"

"What? It's your one-year anniversary and you're not—oh. I see. Really, I'm asking as a friend, what's the plan?"

"So you can go ahead and tell my audience and fans about it? No, thank you, you're not getting a word out of me."

A few minutes later, Mrs. Hudson emerged from the bed room with a big grin on her face. "Gentlemen, may I present: Mrs. Madison Holmes."

Madison slowly came from the room, blushing and timid. Her hair was down and wavy and she wore a white knee-length sundress with a wide black belt and a lace design at the bottom with a black bolero jacket and black heels.

"Latest," said John, typing on his computer, "Madison Holmes steps out of the bed room looking absolutely stunning."

She smiled. "Just keep your eyes on your work," said Sherlock, though not using as much cruelty as he intended, gazing on his wife. "She _is_ beautiful, I have to agree."

"Come on, fess up. What have you got?"

"Good-bye, Dr. Watson. Mrs. Hudson." He held out his arm. "Shall we?"

"Let's." His wife took it and they headed out.

"Have fun!" called the landlady before the door shut. "It's almost… odd, to see Sherlock like this."

"I don't know what it is about Maddie, but she changes him somehow. It's night and day."

He continued typing when she turned to him, crossing her arms and scrunching her nose in confusion. "You're not really blogging it, are you?"

"Of course not. At least, not until I get the pictures uploaded." John got up, going to the shelf where he took a digital camera down.

"Oh, you sneak!"

"Please tell me," Madison pleaded in the cab. Sherlock had given the driver a slip of paper with the address, without a word.

"Haven't you learned anything from me in the last year?"

"Well, it doesn't seem too formal, judging by what we're both wearing, so it can't be anywhere too fancy."

"What about the weather?"

She looked out the open window. "It's a beautiful day; no sign of rain, some clouds, and the pavement is dry. I'd say we'll be somewhere outside."

"Very good. Anything else?"

"Hm… nothing at the moment."

"You're expecting it too much, the anticipation is clouding your thinking. But that's fine for now."

She laid her head on his shoulder. "You're too good to me, Sherlock."

He put an arm around her. "I only wish I could be."

After a few minutes more, the cab slowed and the detective smirked to see her sit up straight. He paid the driver, walked around to her side, and opened the door, helping her out. The vehicle drove off, and the two started down the sidewalk, with the woman a bit confused to see they were headed for a bus station.

"Uh… where are we going?"

"I just need to pick something up." The couple entered and Sherlock saw the man at the luggage counter.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. It's right back here."

He nodded, about to follow him back. "I'll only be a moment."

Left alone, Madison crossed her arms and pursed her lips, thinking hard. A number of things came up, but none of them made much sense or had any relevance to matter on account of the evidence. _Sherlock Holmes, you _are_ a strange man._

And he proved to be stranger. The detective returned, pulling behind him a large suitcase on wheels. He was smirking again, knowing that this confused her all the more. No words passed between them until they were down the street. It was Sherlock who spoke first.

"Well? Any more observations?"

"You're strange."

"I mean besides that."

"You're carrying a suitcase."

"You're one for pointing out the obvious, dear."

"I still don't understand a single thing going on today. What's going on in that brilliant brain of yours?"

"If you only knew."

Madison looked ahead to find themselves at the park. "Huh?"

"Let me take you back in time." They sat down on a bench so he could lay the suitcase flat. "Getting our coffee, coming here to just sit and talk?"

"Oh…" Leaning back in her seat, she looked up at the sky, remembering. "Our first date."

"You've concluded correctly." Opening up the suitcase, inside were picnic items and his violin case.

"Then why the strange—"

"Simply bringing a basket with us in the cab would've given away the surprise. Leading you on like this was the only way I could keep you from realizing."

"Now _that's_ brilliant."

"I'd like to think so."

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock and Madison left the flat sometime around nine o'clock that morning. As it came up on three, having finished their lunch, they went off for a walk before returning to their bench. Now it was nearly five, and had gotten chilly, so she laid her head on his chest, covered with a blanket he brought.

"Hm?" he asked, as though half-woken from sleep.

"Are we going to have children?"

Before, they had seen little kids on the playground, climbing on things, running, and laughing. She only asked it then quietly, but he probably didn't hear her, so she didn't ask again (until now, obviously).

He heaved a sigh through his nose. "We'll have to see what the future brings."

"I mean… do you _want_ children?" He had fallen silent. "I just wanted to know."

"I need to confide in you. About something I've been thinking about for a long time."

"Then tell me."

"Please don't think me unusual—well, any _more_ unusual."

"I won't."

"What… what if I'm not a good enough father?"

"What do you mean?"

"Forget it." Sherlock stood an walked a few feet away; his back was to her and his hands were in his pockets.

She followed him. "Why would you think such a thing?"

"If you haven't noticed"—he turned back to her—"I won't exactly be winning a humanitarian award anytime soon."

"Oh. I understand. I'll admit you give the cold shoulder to just about everyone… but when have you given it to me?"

"You're my wife, it's different. We're talking about little beings that are _our_ flesh and blood; yours, mine. We have to raise them, show them right from wrong, love them. I just don't think I'll do it right."

"Come here." She took his hand so they were sitting down again. "You're kind and loving to me because you love me. Just look at our first anniversary! This may have been the best day of my life."

"Even though we were only at the flat, a bus station, and here?"

"It doesn't matter where we are. All I care about is my husband, sitting beside me and sharing what I'm feeling now."

"Feelings. You'll have to teach them that, what do I have to offer? Intelligence, maybe? How to shoot a weapon?"

"Love. You'll protect them as you protect me. And you care, even if you don't care about anyone else. Those can mean a world of difference in a family. Don't be scared."

"Me?" he scoffed. "Scared? I think you've had a little too much sun today, Maddie."

"You know what I'm trying to say."

"All right, all right. So we're on the same page now."

"What would we name our first child?"

"You tell me."

"Well, I like Mary, or even Jean for a girl. Or Dennis for a boy."

"I'll agree with you on Mary, maybe. Dennis sounds… no."

She laughed. "Then you tell me."

"Arthur? Adrian? What's so funny?"

Having covered her mouth and looked away, she shook her head. "I expected something a little more… _unique_."

"You mean something like… Marianthe, for a girl?"

"It's definitely different, but I like it."

"Just because the names my mother picked were uncommon doesn't mean—" About to argue with her on the subject of names, he saw she had subdued another laugh. "All right. We'll cross that bridge eventually."

"You're just astonishing, Sherlock. People misjudge you."

"You mean that I'm a cold, unfeeling psychopath."

"No. A _high-functioning sociopath_."

"I see you've done your research. Well, here we are. It's been one year, and we've survived. Any regrets?"

Madison layed her head on his chest again, this time, not bothering to pick up the blanket. "Not one. You?"

"Not o—ugh!" He grabbed his right shoulder, leaning forward.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Sherlock?" He was on his knees now, wincing. "What—"

She could hardly believe her eyes. The blood stood out on his fingers, which covered a hole in his shoulder.

Sherlock had been shot.

"Help!" She stood, turning around for the culprit, but only bystanders took a notice when she shouted. "Help! He's been shot!"

**Did anyone catch the reference at the names? Mary, Jean, Arthur, "Denis", and Adrian were the names of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's children, just so you know. Marianthe (MARY-ANN-THEE) is just something unique I threw in there.**


End file.
